


Wander Boy

by todtart (poptod)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1940s, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Gay Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Sad and Sweet, Slow Romance, Soft Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/todtart
Summary: Based off this Tumblr text post by s4mm4n:God I miss the days when you could show up to a strangers farm and he’d say “Whats your name, boy?” and you’d take off your hat and hold it to your chest to better let him see your face and reply “Why I aint got one sir, on account of my mammy passed on before she could give me one” and he’d tell you he’s real damn sorry to hear that and ask what he can do for you and you’d tell him that you can’t read nor even write neither but you’re mighty good with horses and can  mend them fallen fence posts what you saw on your way in and won’t ask for nothing much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in and he’d keep his wife and daughters inside but send his boy who aint for married even though his mama tells him he needs a woman out with a lantern and some stew at night and the two of you’d get to talking and he’d throw you his flask to take a swig from and watch you drinking from it while he leant against the door frame and when he finally got called back on up to the house again he’d take a sip from it too real slow-like like it weren’t the whiskey what he were tryna savorWARNING: Halfway through this story, it becomes about family loss and tuberculosis.





	Wander Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Neither main character dies, just so you know, and this is also published as a fanfiction on my other pseud.

There’s an old quote from a poet that goes, ‘There is no glory in star or blossom, till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breeze till breathed with joy as they wander by.’ A girl by the name of Betty read it to you. You paused her speech, asking her what it meant. She told you that it was something you had to figure out by yourself. You didn't have much time to dwell upon it, as you left a month later.

It was a pattern in your life. People come and go, or rather, you come and go. Around the area you’d become a sort of myth. Sometimes you’d knock on a farmhouse door, asking for a place to stay. You always promised free work from you, but sometimes they’d recognize you. Of course, they’d ask you first.

“Aren’t you that kid wandering ‘round the country?”

“Yes I am, sir,” you always replied.

Life was, in their eyes, easy for you. And maybe it was. You had no family to stay with - an unfortunate cause of never knowing where you were from. You wandered on a whim, and stayed with those who would let you. They, on the other hand, had to stay right where they were, the scenery never changing, the people ever still. Maybe life was more animated for you, filled with different characters and families you’d met in great adventures during the trek that took up your entire life, searching for something you couldn't have. Whenever you were asked to tell stories about your adventures, you were typically met with skepticism and a fair amount of criticism. There was one story though, that no matter what family you were with, was very popular, and was usually told more than twice. It was the story of your birth. It was best told with the May family. Other times, you slipped up, stuttering and forgetting.

“I was born right next to the Mississippi river. My ma was all alone that night, ‘cept of course the owls, and the snakes.”

It earned a shiver from the family’s only child. She didn’t like snakes. Actually, you’d learned a few hours ago at that point that she favored unicorns.

“Well, before I could even open my eyes she died. Before she could give me a name, even, which is why I’ve got so many names.”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“A lotta people ‘round here don’t like if you ain’t got any name. So they give me one, just a temporary sorta thing. I’ve been called Billie, Indiana, Scout, even Raphael.”

“How’d you survive without a mom?”

“I was raised by the wilderness. Which is why I’m so good with animals. Especially snakes, they’re the ones that kept me safe while I slept. Even now when I hear a rattlesnake I fall straight asleep. Nature can be mighty kind, as long as you respect it. Eventually I was found by a group of dwarves, and they taught me english.”

“Dwarves are real?!”

“It’s just a story, honey,” her mother said calmly, placing a hand on her shoulder. You leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Stories can be true.”

To be perfectly honest, they weren't fairytale dwarves. They were a travelers, much like yourself, who banded together over the fact that they had 'stunted growth,' as they called it. After a while, to help with their own popularity (and probably a submission to what everyone already called them), they started to refer to themselves as dwarves.

You remembered the May family quite clearly. Just like every family. The first one you stayed with were the dwarves, and they were kind people, despite not being very human. They had their customs. The second family was the Bryant family. The father was a doctor, and the mother a seamstress. They had three children, two girls, one boy. One girl was very ill, had a bone disease you knew very little about. Her mother didn’t pay much attention to her, barely recognizing her as her child. The other girl was perfect in every way. Her mother rather liked her, and flaunted her and her beauty. The son was strong, and athletic, something the father obviously enjoyed.

There were too many families to name. So it wasn’t often you tried.

You weren’t sure where you were. Somewhere north of where you usually were, which you didn’t know where that was either. In fact, if you looked at a map you would be absolutely clueless, until you were met with the state border of Tennessee. A sign to the side of the old road. You smiled to yourself, heading forwards with your pack still upon your shoulders.

It wasn’t long till food ran out, and there wasn’t much to eat in the spring. Everything was just barely blooming, and the fruits of trees were still green and not yet ripe. Many of the following nights you ate sleep for dinner, till you came to a big house right off the main road. Partially hidden by trees, with one smaller road leading to it, it was a haven you desperately needed to be accepted into, if only for a night.

You headed down the road in the chill of evening, the small and empty pack on your shoulders bouncing as you walked. The fence on the way in was broken, badly. It probably needed to be replaced. The trees on the way down were mangled, branches sticking out of the ground just waiting for a guy to trip on them. You sniffed, combing your hair back with your fingers and the sweat of the sun beating you down all day. Shirt tucked in, boots cleaner than they were before at least, you knocked on the door. You stood upon a beautiful wood porch, one obviously made by the family a few years back.

A man in suspenders, looking dirty as you were answered the door. His beard was well kempt, graying at the roots and wiry. He was mostly bald, and his skin was well tanned.

“Hey there, boy,” he said hesitantly, probably not expecting you. Well, _probably_. There was one time where a woman had expected you, and when you opened the door it was quite a surprise-

“You needin’ something?” He asked, thick brows furrowing together. You’d wandered off in thought again.

“Uh, sir,” you pulled your hat of straw down off your head, trying to remember how you usually started these conversations.

“What’s your name, boy?” He asked you, leaning his head forward to get a better look at you. You pressed your hat closer to your chest, combing your hair behind your ear to let him see you better. You answered with honesty.

“Why I ain’t got one sir, on account of my ma passed on before she could give me one,” you told him, lips pressed tight together in hope that he’d be kind.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at his own boots with a frown. “I’m mighty sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Sir, I can’t read, and - and I can’t write neither, but I’m awful good with horses, and I can mend that broken fence I saw comin’ in. I won’t ask for nothing much more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in,” you said, placing your hat back on your head. The man contemplated it, not allowing you to see his face.

“Alright, y’seem trustworthy enough. But I’m keepin’ my wife and my daughters inside.”

You nodded understandingly.

“But I got a son. Just one. He can help you, what with that fence.” He turned to the side of the house, pointing down a ways at a red barn in front of their field.

“There’s the barn. But tell me, boy, you’ve got to have at least somethin’ we can call you,” he returned to staring at you, a confused but enamored glimmer in his half smile.

“Whatever you like sir.”

He looked you up and down.

“Charlie. Simple name. That good?” He asked, though you had no answer for him. It was just something they would call you till you left. Then you’d get a new name.

“Good,” you said with a bright smile, turning to leave for the barn.

“Charlie?”

You turned around immediately, the name already being worked into your memory.

“I’ll get my son to send over some supper. Can’t have you faintin’ tomorrow.” He smiled at you for the first time. His eyes crinkled happily, and his cheeks rose in a red blush.

“Thank you, sir.”

The evening turned quickly to night after your conversation and the short walk to the barn. As you opened the large doors just a crack, you saw it was newly painted. The red was dark and fresh, while the white was crackling and dry. It was warmer in the building, with both the heat off the animals and the hay insulation helping out.

“Howdy y’all,” you said with a laugh and a smile, tipping your hat at the horses to the right of you, then to the stall of sleeping chickens just woken from your steps. Most of them paid you no mind, simply going back to sleep. Others seemed wary, but one chicken came through a hole underneath the stalls, sleeping in your stall, avoiding touching you. You smiled at it. A chick still too young to determine whether it's a lady or a rooster. You sat in the stall in the corner, laying in fresh hay that was sweeter than girls’ perfume.

A few minutes later, after you’d had a full on conversation with the chick, the door cracked open. You turned over from your stomach to your back, standing up and over the stall wall to see who was visiting either you or the animals.

A boy no older than you was pushing the door open with his back, holding a lantern and a bowl in his hands. The lantern was raised above his head and far from his body, his eyes concentrated on the stew in the bowl with furrowed brows. He got in well enough, scanning over the barn till he saw you. You stepped out of the stall with a grateful smile.

“Thank ye' kindly,” you said, still smiling down at the stew, then back at him. It smelled better than anything you’d smelled in all your life. A wooden spoon was sticking out of it.

“‘Course,” he shrugged, watching you sit straight on the ground and begin eating it. Slowly he walked to your side, sitting down right next to you. It also _tasted_ better than anything you’d tasted in all your life

“Can I ask you something?” He asked when you were half finished with your meal. You peeked up at him, reluctant to pull your face out of the bowl. You nodded simply.

“My pa, he said you ain’t got a name. That true?”

“Sure is. He’s callin’ me Charlie now,” you said with a belt of a laugh, quickly returning to less gluttonous eating.

“Why don’t you have any name?” He leaned onto his elbows, staring at you with squinted eyes as though to see you better.

“I was never given one. People like to give me ones though.”

“Why don’tcha name yourself?”

“People prefer to name me.”

“Then if someone asked, what would you name y’self?”

You thought for a good moment, your movements stopping.

“… Bo?” You answered uncertainly. You’d never thought of it before.

“Outta all the names in the world, you’d really choose that? You could be anything you want!”

“Alright, if you got so many ideas about my name, why don’t _you_ name me?” You turned, watching his smile as you did. It was bright, wide, and made his eyes shut almost fully. The small freckles on his face became more prominent in his cheeks. He shot up, still kneeling but on his feet, one knee pressed to the floor as if he needed to get a running start.

“Thaddeus,” he answered, making his face serious, but not for long till he broke into a smile again. “No," he shook his head, "Jubal. Ulysses! Absalom.”

“Absalom?”

He nodded.

“Those are awful nice names. Old, too. Belong to a family most times.”

“I’ll come up with a perfect name for you, I swear,” he said, sitting back down after his outburst.

“Well, I thank you for that,” you said with a laugh, handing the bowl back to him. He sent you one last smile. He stood up, shook your hand good bye, and left, bidding you a good nights’ sleep.

You hadn’t gotten his name, you remembered in that moment. You shrugged with a sigh, knowing you could always ask in the morning. You reentered the cleanest pen, falling asleep in the now empty stall. It was still warm, and it still smelled of fresh hay.

In the morning, cracks of sunlight shone through the holes and lines between the wood. The whole barn lit up like a chandelier, encasing both you and animals alike in a glittering light show. You clearly remembered where you were, and what you had to do. Only your fair share, as always in such situations. You straightened out your shirt, pants, and boots, and put your straw hat back on your head, heading out into the brightness of day.

Outside, the father was already waiting for you, sitting on a chair on the porch, smoking an old pipe. He wore a small hat, and had dirty gloves on. You jogged over to him, following the clear path to the house instead of cutting through the grass.

“Charlie, good t’ see you up. Now we’re waitin’ on that boy of mine,” he glared back into the house, returning back to you with a calmer expression. You nodded, offering a somewhat overly friendly smile. Leaning against the side of the porch you picked up a straw out of a nearby pile of hay, putting it in your mouth and chewing. Not a few moments later his son came bursting through the door, all cleaned up and fresh faced. His hair was a lighter brown, and skin clearer and more blushed.

“Let’s get goin’ then,” he stood, patting his sons’ shoulder as he lead the two of you. You had no gloves with you, but it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. Probably.

When at last the climb up the short road was finished, the father instructed you and his son on how to tear down the fence and rebuild it. He gave no time limit, leaving you with the proper tools in a box.

“I didn’t get your name last night,” you started, bending down to examine the different tools. They seemed expensive.

“Eugene,” he said, kicking at the old fence post. You stood, walking over to the first of the broken posts. Eugene was a nice name, you thought. Greek in origin, which wasn’t something you expected someone like you to know. Actually, you found out every single Grecian name because you were working in-

“Gonna help someday?” Eugene grunted, trying to heave the fence post out of the ground. You flickered back into reality, crouching down to grab the fence post from the bottom and pulling it up.

“On one,” he said with a heavy pant, realizing at this rate you wouldn’t get anything done.

“Three.”

You gripped the fence post tightly, fingers wide as they could go.

“Two.”

You trilled your fingers over the wood, fixing your position to be optimal.

“One.”

You both pulled at once, and in one great heave, the fence post toppled over to the side, landing on the dirt road. You smiled at him, giving him a light punch to the shoulder.

“We can do it,” you said with a quiet laugh, picking the wood up to put in a pile off the road. This continued down two more till it got tiring, and two more till it became repetitive and boring.

“So, you jus’ wander around? Ain’t you got any place to call home?” He asked, finishing with the stacking of the sixth post.

“Nope. Just me and my lonesome,” you said with a sniff, heading over to the next post. He shot up to look at you, giving you the quickest glance before relaxing. It almost didn’t happen.

“Doesn’t it ever get tiresome?”

“Yeah, which is why I stay with people like you.” You both had your hands around the post, and you nodded as you spoke, a sign to pull out the fence post at once. It worked again, as it had for the last six.

“No family at all?”

“I dunno my pa, and my mammy’s dead,” you said, picking up the post as he grabbed the other broken wood.

“Sounds depressing.”

“What about your family? What’re they like?”

His face fell from smile to horrified, to reluctant in an instant.

“I got my father, and my ma, and my two sisters. I used to have three.”

“What happened?”

“Died of consumption. Scared my family stiff for a whole year. Happened when I was 7.”

“What was she like?”

“Happy.”

“That’s good,” you nodded, picking up shards of wood that had fallen away. He stared at you for a moment, as though he was memorizing your movements, intent to get every detail. He blinked himself out of his moment, steadying himself at the next fence post.

“You’ve been ‘bout everywhere. Got any stories?” He asked, pulling with you at your nod.

“Met a man like myself,” you shrugged, tossing the wood into the pile.

“I thought you’d be the only one.”

“That’s what you think, poppy,” you said with a wink.

“Alright then, enlighten me.”

You smiled. This was often the best part of new people; your stories were always new.

“I’d gone further north than I’d ever gone before. I didn’t know this till someone showed me a map, I’d said I come from Georgia, the last place I knew where I was. Boy showed me a map, told me I was in Virginia. Quite a surprise. Anyhow I got to know the guy, an in return for me tellin’ him stories I’d heard, he showed me the ocean. Said that way across that huge swath of water was a whole ‘nother land. Hard for me to believe. I noticed he had a weird accent, an’ he told me he was from that other land. He’d travelled here because his brother was lost.

"See, apparently he was from some obscure royal family - I dunno, said some weird fancy words about Kings and Dukes. He explained that he had risen to the throne, but his brother ran away. So instead of becoming King and sending people after his brother, he went himself. But he had no idea where to start, so he just landed where he could and started askin’ ‘round. He asked me if I’d seen ‘im, and he showed me a photograph of his brother. I said I hadn’t, because I hadn’t, and he was understanding. Anyway, I hear he’s still wanderin’ round the country lookin’ for that poor brother o’ his.”

“I think he was lying to ya. No one royal would be ‘round these parts.”

“I never said he was here, I said he was in Virginia,” you said with a cheeky smile.

He just glared at you, wiping the sweat from off his brow. His mouth was parted as he panted, strikingly auburn hair shining in the sunlight. He didn’t have a hat. Puffs of dust and dirt had clung to the sweat on his face, along with the line of dirt from his gloves from wiping his forehead moments before. You hadn’t noticed the red in his hair before. It went well along with the tall, golden grass at his feet.

“Break?” He asked, putting his hands on his hips, still panting. He squinted to see you in the glaring sun. You nodded, wiping your own brow and heading down the hill with him. You sat outside on the deck, your legs dangling off the side since there wasn’t any fence in place. You took off your hat, fanning yourself with it. The shade felt eons better.

A few minutes later he came back out, sandwiches in hand. He gave one to you, and the other he kept, sitting by your side to eat with you. With a nod you thanked him.

“You got any story that’s real?” He asked, leaning towards you.

“All my stories are real,” you said with a laugh.

“Ever fallen in love before?” He switched the subject.

“Never found a girl for me,” you answered. It was what you always answered, word for word. Every time.

He was quiet, about to take his last bite.

“Ever fall in love with anybody?” He was quiet, voice just barely confident. As though he hoped you’d take it as a joke.

You didn’t answer. You finished your sandwich, got up, and headed back up the road. He followed a moment later, and for a while you were silent as you worked.

“You married?” You asked at the moment the two of you pulled another stake out of the ground.

“Nah. Ma says I need a woman,” he laughed.

“How old are y’ anyway?”

“Jus’ turned 20. You?”

“No idea. Didn’t start counting till two years ago, so, two years old, but that’s probably not the answer you want,” you said with a wink. He laughed, nodding.

“You look to be around my age anyway.”

The sun was soon touching the hills in the distance, and Eugene was headed back into his home. You bid him good bye, but he reminded you happily that you would see him in an hour or two, for dinner. Before then you sat in the barn, waiting for when he’d return. You didn’t want to fall asleep, and you didn’t know when he was coming, which lead to an expected amount of boredom. Eventually he arrived, opening the barn door the same way he had the first night.

“Pa said to send his thanks to you, for keepin’ your word,” he said as he sat down beside you. You took the bowl from him, eating with as many manners as you could remember.

“I always keep my word,” you said.

“That so?” He murmured.

“That’s so,” you smiled.

You both sat in silence, till he got up. You watched as he wandered around the barn, tending to various animals simply by paying attention to them. You continued eating.

“You haven’t even got a nickname?” He turned to you, speaking his mind in the still silence. You looked up from the bite you were taking, shrugging slightly.

“Some people call me wander boy, but that likens me to a beast, or an urban myth.”

“So you don’t really like it?”

“Not especially, but I don’t really care all that much.”

He hummed, turning back around to the animals.

“You have a nickname?” You asked, your mind on the topic after his question.

“Uh… yeah,” he answered hesitantly, his cheeks reddening in the dim light of the lantern. He turned slightly to you, eyes wide. The shadows danced in stark difference on his face, blacks contrasting greatly with bright yellows and reds.

“Mind tellin’ me what it is?” You asked with a laugh.

“… yes.”

“Alright,” you shrugged again, turning your attention back to what was left of your meal. He sat back down beside you after a bit, shifting every now and then. When you finished he took the bowl from you, repeating the same wish that you slept well.

“Uh, poppy -“ you stood quickly, tugging at his long sleeve to stop him from leaving. He turned to you, his face still and expectant. What was it again that you were planning to say?

“Thank you,” you said to him, releasing him from your grip. He smiled, shaking his head tiredly before leaving.

You sighed, shoulders relaxing. You smiled to yourself, moseying back over into your makeshift bed. Balling up your shirt and empty bag, you set it underneath your head as you lay down. You set your hat over your face, and within the timespan of a few deep breaths, you fell asleep.

This pattern continued for a good, long time. You’d wake up at the crack of dawn, wait at the porch for Eugene, and head up the road to continue tearing up the fence. The two of you would talk, share meals, and then you’d go back into the barn. Nighttime must’ve done something to him. He grew quieter, more contemplative than he ever was during the day.

Eventually the day came where the fence was completely torn down - at least the part that needed fixing. On one hand you had no idea how to actually build a fence. On the other hand, someone could probably teach you, and you still really needed a place to stay. What with winter on its’ eventual way, it would be hard to travel, especially without a regular source of food.

On one morning, before you woke up, there was a loud knock at the barn door. You got up immediately, having thought you overslept, only to realize it was still dawn. Eugene was opening the door, fully dressed, hair brushed to perfection underneath a fancy hat. What with the dim light you could hardly see him, but he looked awful spiffy.

“We’re goin’ into town today,” he told you with a smile, opening up the gate for you to come out. You put your shirt that you’d been sleeping with back on, stepping out to stand beside him.

“Sounds dandy!” You replied, brushing the hay off your legs and body. He chuckled, pulling a few pieces out of your hair. You muttered a thanks as the two of you left the barn, heading back towards the house in the purple light of dawn. You walked behind him, noticing clean, shined up shoes and brown suspenders.

This family didn’t own a car, not that you could see. Not many did, you noticed, but they did have a tractor, and horses, so it was a bit surprising when he simply walked up the road and began down the larger road to town. Still you followed obediently, trailing behind him as if it were your place.

“Y’know, I never got your last name,” you mentioned out of nowhere, jogging to walk beside him instead of behind.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that,” he apologized, kicking a rock down the road. It scuffed his shoes, and he let out a quiet groan of disappointment.

“Mind enlightenin’ me then?”

“Silas. Never liked it too much, sounds old,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You chuckled. “Silas is a nice name, though. Biblical.”

“How’d you know that? I thought you couldn’t read,” he said in an accusatory tone, but the laughter gave it easily away.

“You ready for another long story?”

He nodded. You smiled to yourself, knowing the story well. It was a personal favorite of yours.

“Well when I was a tad younger I was just wanderin’ down the road till I came across an old house. It was a lot like how I found your house. Anywho, I knocked on the door, hoping they would be kindly enough to help me out. I was starvin’. So, I knocked on the door and this man answered, all shrouded up in black cloth with a big, pointy hat on. He was terribly kind though so I payed it no mind. He invited me in, fed me, all that. After I’d been fully fed and watered, he pulled out this big, old book, covered in dust and old writings. I wondered for a moment if he was ‘bout to pull some voodoo magic on me, but he handed me the book. I declined, tellin’ him I couldn’t read.

“He was disappointed in me. I didn’t know why so I asked, plain and simple, ‘what’s this book?’. He said that it was this old book written for his ancestor from long ago. Detailed everythin’ in Jesus Christ’s life. Of course I didn’t believe him. ‘Why was he in America? Does the ancestor have a name?’ But with every question I posed he had an answer, prepared as though he were really tellin’ the truth, so I took his word.

“He went on to tell me that he was old, very old, and that he had no sons or daughters, that he needed to pass the knowledge on to someone. He said he didn’t have a choice but to trust me, but that either way I seemed like a friendly enough kinda guy. So for the next few months he read the book out to me, tellin’ me the most important parts, and some real odd parts too, some that didn’t seem to be in the right place. Eventually we got to the end and I asked what he wanted to do with the book, now that I knew it. He told me to let it stay with him, and when I found a person worthy of this knowledge and in keeping the book, I should come fetch it from his house, and give it to said person.

“Since then I’ve had peculiar knowledge of things, from the book. Every now and then it comes in handy. Did you know a chinchilla has 50 hairs per follicle?”

“I did not. Never even seen one before.”

“Neither have I. Didn’t even know what a chinchilla was before that time.”

Eugene laughed, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, looking up at you with bright eyes.

“I get that more than you think, poppy,” you patted his shoulder. “And to be fair, I’m sure you think I get it quite a bit.”

“I do,” he laughed.

It wasn’t long till the houses became more frequent, soon crowding next to each other by the street side. Signposts popped up, marking roads, and a sign reading ‘Chattanooga, Tennessee,’ appeared right before you hit the town.

“Chattanooga,” you repeated, hoping you were pronouncing it correctly.

“Yep,” he confirmed, leading you to the sidewalk. Cars puttered by, colored in black and bright pastels. The buildings were tall, made mostly of brick, and people lined the streets. Most were simply walking, others were merchants attempting to get people to buy their things. Eugene steered you clearly away from them. You couldn’t hear the river, but you could smell it in the distance. The telltale scent of sand and freshwater was something you’d always remember.

“Beautiful town,” you remarked, looking at the large church you were passing by.

“I like it,” Eugene said, continuing to walk. You followed quickly behind, ending up at a hardware store. It was on purpose that you didn’t ask questions, so you had no idea why you were in town, and without a car. it confused you more when you entered the hardware store. Still you kept questions to yourself. The family wasn’t stupid, you could probably trust them.

You stood outside the entrance, not wanting to enter any store in your state. Dirty, with the buttons on your shirt half falling off, some already missing. Your boots hardly even looked black anymore, a shade of dark brown from dirt taking its place. A few minutes later Eugene came out, standing beside you as he waited for something to happen.

“We’re getting new fenceposts. Pa doesn’t trust us to build one, but he thinks we can set it up,” he informed you after a bit, rolling onto the balls of his feet and toes, hands folded behind his back.

“Seems good to me,” you replied. This was good, because you never handled saws well. The loud scraping noise they made brought back bad memories. Despite that it was just in general a violent tool and unpleasant to hear.

Eventually a truck drove round back the shop, circling the block before heading off the road you came down.

“They’re driving it home,” he informed you quietly, beginning the walk home. You jogged, catching up and staying behind him.

That afternoon, stretching into the evening, Pa taught the two of you how to set up the fence. Eugene seemed well experienced, which made you wonder why he didn’t already know how to build a fence. You were grateful he didn’t know how though, because you didn’t either, and having his father instruct you both helped immensely in knowing what you were doing.

When the sun began to set Pa went back into the house, leaving you alone to talk with your new friend as you set up the posts.

“You know any other languages?” Eugene asked out of nowhere, the start to your conversation as Pa headed down the hill.

“Just english I’m afraid,” you said.

“Right,” he grunted, pushing the post and driving it into the hole already in the ground. You kneeled at the bottom, stuffing the sides with wet dirt.

“What about you? Y’speak anything besides english?”

“I learned french in school,” he said with a shrug, trying to keep the stake still as you made sure it stayed in place forever.

“French! What a fancy tongue. Hell, I’ve never even heard it before. Mind sayin’ somethin’ to me in it? Anything goes,” you asked excitedly. Learning new things was another one of the best parts of your life. Eugene laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he looked away. He seemed tense, hands gripping too tight on the post as he hunched in on himself.

“Um, comment vous appelez-vous,” he stammered, stopping multiple times, blinking quickly as he tried to remember what he learned.

“Sounds fancy,” you laughed, loving it already. You stood, helping to put in the next pole with a good stab to the ground with a giant stake, like a dirty vampire.

“Yeah, I think it means what’s your name,” he told you shakily, keeping the pole steady as you got more wet dirt.

“Charlie,” you replied, answering his not-really-a-question question.

“I _know_ that,” he jokingly hissed, almost spitting on you.

“Watch what you do with that tongue! Y’nearly spit on me,” you grumbled, looking at him with a disapproving look and a devious smile.

You fell into easy silence, going through a routine that felt already ingrained in your memory. The air grew cooler, smelling of sweetgrass and running water, making your nose a little bit cold. Otherwise it was warm - the sun just lowered below the horizon, giving off a hazy gold glow wrapped in a plum colored blanket. The weeping trees around you swayed ever so gently in the ghost of a breeze, and the world felt still as you repeated the same routine over and over again, feeling now as if you’d been doing this for all your life, and you’d be happy to do it for the rest of your life, too.

“You all there?” Eugene waved a hand in front of your face.

He looked concerned, soft skin crinkled as he furrowed his eyebrows. Brown eyes turned darker, long eyelashes partially hiding them. The light off the dying sunset illuminated his face, but just barely - enough to see distinct shadows in the form of his cheekbones and eyes.

“Yeah, just thinkin’ bout my luck.” You rolled your shoulders back, stuffing wet dirt into the holes surrounding the fence post.

“Your _luck_? Living without a family is hardly luck,” he said softly, as though he were the one without the family.

“The whole worlds’ my family. Right now, you’re my family,” you replied, voice just as soft as his was, a playful glint in your eye.

He didn’t respond. His eyes turned towards the now completely gone sun, the colors now pale and pastel in comparison to the brashness they bore before.

“You’ve got a beautiful home,” you said, turning to him, “I’m lucky to have such a beautiful view.” He chuckled bashfully, thanking you, telling you that his family had chosen the spot long ago.

From the distance of the house the door opened, the light that spilled out catching the corner of your eye. You turned, watching a woman around Pa’s age step out in a long, black skirt. She had a white apron on, and her hair was in a bun. She was thin, but she looked happy, and from this distance, you surmised she was probably a happy person to look at.

“Eugene, suppertime!” She called, waving one of her hands in the air. He turned to you, tipping his nonexistent hat to you before heading through the trees and to his home. You picked up the tools, and the remaining posts, delivering them to the shack on the other side of the house. By the time you got into the barn it was beginning to turn a little cooler. You waited for a time, playing with one of the chicks that seemed to like you. When you realized the light outside was no longer partially sun but fully moon, you stepped outside.

Eugene would be coming soon with dinner, and you were rather hungry. Another reason you weren’t so easy to disclose was that you just wanted to see him.

The door to the house opened, momentarily lighting the porch up with yellow light and the silhouette of Eugene. He headed down the small path to the barn, smiling when he saw you already sitting outside, waiting for him. He handed the plate to you, now with mashed potatoes and vegetables, a meal just as good as the stew you’d been getting for the past month or so. With a huff he sat beside you, his legs splayed out before him as he leaned against the door of the red barn.

“You come up with the perfect name for me met?” You asked.

“Not yet. I’m still going to,” he assured you.

“I believe you,” you sniffed, smiling to yourself. The light on the porch was turned on, revealing the path back and all the golden fields between. A quiet stretched between the two of you, alienating both of you from the other. All the while the scents and sounds around you, the trees giving you a shared experience drew you closer together, no matter if your bodies were sitting as far away as they could.

“You planning on leaving anytime soon?” He asked.

“I’ve still got ta mend that there fence, and I’m thinkin’ of finishing the paint job on this barn.” You tapped the barn behind you with your knuckles. He chuckled, turning to look at the ground he sat on.

“That’ll keep you here through to winter, and then what are you planning on?”

“That’s winter, I’m not going nowhere during that time,” you assured. Winter wasn’t the best time to be walking around the countryside.

Eugene nodded, rolling his shoulders back in a tic that you noticed nervous people did when they were trying to appear nonchalant. You inhaled deeply, finishing your meal. You didn’t hand him the empty plate though, instead tilting your head towards the heavens, admiring the clearest stars you’d ever seen. You weren’t at all sure if they were clearer because of an open sky, or just because he was next to you.

He may or may not have noticed you were finished right away. If he did he didn’t make any move toward nor away from you. Instead you both sat in silence, listening to the night grow louder till he couldn’t bare anymore.

“Good night cher,” he said with a smile, taking your plate from you.

“Night, poppy!” You called to him, and he laughed, looking at you one last time before reentering his home. You left back into the barn, falling asleep in familiar hay.

A long time passed. You grew to know more about this one boy than you had anyone in your life - most times families didn’t have someone you could relate to, or anyone who was around your age. No one else was as receptive to your stories either. Many would simply brush you off, or say ‘I like your stories, but it’d be nice if you told the truth.’ Everything you said was the truth. It wasn’t your fault that a lot of weird, inexplicable things happened to you. Eugene simply listened, and even if he didn’t really believe, he’d act like everything you said was true.

He was a friendly, well rounded man, you decided. Unlike you he was settled, and his mind didn’t wander from the task at hand. He reminded you of the rivers you often stayed beside. Always keeping their course, never diverging.

And his eyes - warmer than fire, more intense than it as well. Oftentimes you couldn’t look him directly in the eyes. His stare was more passionate than you cared to withstand.

During your time with the Silas family your situation remained the same. You slept in the barn, you and Eugene would work on various projects (including the fence), and you got to know Pa rather well. Sometimes he’d come and join you, telling his own stories. Your own stories interested him as well, but most of the time he couldn’t follow them very easily. He was always as kind as the day you first met him.

The time passed from spring to summer, the leaves of the trees beginning to dry up. The lakes grew smaller, and the birds more numerous. The hay was ripe, and smelled sweeter than it had in the spring months. Rains came less often, and the sun shone more frequently.

While most often you used your free time to talk with Eugene, you also talked with Pa. Not quite as often, as he was usually busy with his job, but it was enlightening when you did.

One morning, when you had already woken up, Eugene was not outside to meet you. Instead it was Pa, sitting in his chair and smoking his pipe. Upon your arrival he stood, walking down the steps to be equal with you.

“I’ve been thinkin’ Charlie,” he started, pulling the cigar out of his mouth, “that maybe I should start paying you. Y’ve more than made up fer the meals you’ve eaten, and I’m feelin’ a little-“

“There’s no need, sir. I get my pay in the happiness I get from this place. Quite a spot you’ve got,” you said to him with a wink. He laughed, patting your shoulder.

“Alright, son. Eugene should be out soon,” he had told you, making his way back up the stairs and disappearing behind an ornately carved oak door. You smiled to yourself, and patiently waited for your friend to arrive.

Not long after that, you became actual, pronounced friends with Eugene, which was something you weren’t expecting. It had been made public to you that you two were, in fact, friends when the carnival arrived in town. Rides, food stalls, and different odd exhibits stayed on the outskirts of the town, attracting the young and old to make memories soon reminisced upon. That morning you were prepared to work, but Eugene came out in practically rainbow suspenders, with clean brown pants and nice shoes. He cleaned up well, you thought, taking notice of his well brushed hair.

“Thought we’d mosey to the fair today. I think a day off is earned,” he had said to you, pulling you in for a side hug, and staying that way with his arm slung around you the whole way to the fair. His jacket, a nice brown that matched his pants, was flipped cooly over his shoulder. He payed the fare to get inside. You apologized for not having any money, and he said that it was alright - he didn’t have any either, it was just his fathers. Once you entered, the arm came off your shoulder.

He led you to various exotic animal exhibits. You had no idea, in all your life, that animals could be as large as an elephant. He laughed at your shocked expression, mouth and eyes open wide in astonishment and fascination.

At the end of the day he bought you funnel cake, which was an odd thing to look at at first, having never seen it before. He promised it tasted good.

“Two, for me n’ my friend,” he said to the person selling them. They happily agreed, apron flapping up with bright colors of red and yellow. You smiled, a simple smile, feeling only happy that he thought you to be a friend. To you, he would always be a friend. A very good one.

He noticed your smile, lightly punching you in the side with a laugh. You shoved him back playfully, only being stopped by the cakes behind handed to you.

“It looks like pasta and cheese,” you told him as the two of you exited the fairgrounds.

“I promise, on my ma, it’s good,” he said, jacket still slung over his shoulder, plate in the other hand. You eyed both him and the cake suspiciously, before trying it, being amazed that it didn’t taste like pasta. He laughed at you for doubting him, and you sternly informed him that you didn’t doubt _him_, only the funnel cakes.

“Must’ve had a funny look about ‘em,” he laughed.

“They did!”

A month later you asked about his sisters. You’d seen his mother in small snippets of life - when he got called back inside, through the windows in the kitchen, or being picked up by friends in bright, flashy cars.

“My sisters are already married. Off in another town with their rich as hell husbands,” he told you with a dismissive hand.

“Been quiet since they left?” You asked, dipping your brush into the white paint. You stroked evenly, in soft form, so as to not interrupt the flow of both the paint and the wood of the barn trim.

“Not since you came ‘round,” he chuckled, doing a terrible job of keeping even strokes.

“Poppy, you’re still not doing it right,” you sighed, dropping your brush into the bucket and standing beside him. You grabbed his hand, moving it in a demonstration of proper form.

“There’s no _proper_ form to painting barns, you’re uptight,” he rolled his eyes, keeping his face obscured from your view. You sighed, continuing to do the brushing for him with his hand. When he broke into a laugh you did as well, dropping his hand and leaving back to your side of the door.

“Speakin’ of my family, Pa said to invite you to dinner with us,” Eugene said.

It was the first time you ate with them. They offered to house you in the guest room, but you insisted that a barn was more comfortable for someone like you. After all, it was - beds were too soft, you felt as though you were sinking into the ground.

His mother was smart. That was the first thing you noticed. Quiet and intelligent, observing how you moved and how you spoke as though it could determine your trustworthiness. It probably did, for her. Trustworthiness was determined differently in your eyes. Usually you ended up in a very dangerous, life threatening situation with someone where you had to trust them, and then trust was slowly built through bonding and-

“You’ve got more manners than I thought you did,” Eugene said, nudging you with his elbow as the two of you walked (well, stumbled) back to the barn. He’d had too much to drink and he still had a flask full of bourbon with him. You on the other hand, didn’t usually ever drink, so when you did, you were incredibly lightweight.

“I’ve - I’ve got a f- a, got tricks up my sleeve,” you said thickly, almost stumbling over him.

“Ha! I didn’t even know you had sleeves.”

“I have sleeves! Not.. not that weird,” you mumbled, collapsing outside the barn, leaning on the wall. The white was now just as bright as the red. The doors next to you were fully open, letting the heat of the barn escape into the heat of summer night.

“You’re weird,” he retorted weakly, sitting right beside you with flask still in hand. His leg touched yours, foot swinging back and forth to touch your foot. At the fifth touch you broke into giggles, mindlessly laughing at something that was certainly not funny.

“You’re weirder,” you said. He handed you the flask, letting you take a drink from it. You did so, handing it back to him.

“I’d - definitely, _definitely_ say you’re much… MUCH weirder. Man wanderin’ round the country with a pack on his back, blowing with the wind? Much - much, much much _much_ much weirder than a boy from a family home.”

“Oh hush,” you laughed, watching him take a sip. His adams apple bobbed clearly in his throat with his chin tilted upwards, taking gulps of the shimmering bourbon from the metal flask. He closed his eyes, red hair stuck to his forehead, all messed up from the days’ work. You took a deep breath, looking away from him. Beside you, you heard him stand, pacing a bit. He kneeled beside the grass, picking at it while muttering something to himself. You giggled as you watched him doing mindless things.

“Laughing. It’s rude,” he turned to you, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“Laughing is rude?” You laughed, whole chest shaking with the force of it.

“No! You’re laughing at me!”

“I would - I would never,” you calmed yourself down, now just staring at him with a dumb smile, the remnants of a bout of laughter.

“Whatever you say, cher,” he said with a tired but happy smile, sauntering over to the open barn doors. He leaned against the door frame, tossing the flask to you. You caught it before it hit your face, taking another swig from it. You muttered a thank you, tossing it back to him. You watched again as he drank from it, just a sip this time. He looked at the empty sky, barren of clouds. Fireflies buzzed peacefully about you, illuminating the air around you much like the stars brightened the sky. The scent in the air smelled distinctly of dry grass from summer sun, and of the pie his mother baked that day.

The two of you stared at each other, silent, not needing to say a word.

Heaven personified.

His mother opened the door, calling him inside, before returning inside herself.

Eugene turned back to face you. Time stretched in seconds to moments, flickers of time that meant too much to even think on for too long. His eyes stayed locked on you, him taking a sip real slow-like - as though it wasn’t the whiskey he was trying to savor.

Piercing eyes left you, making you feel heavy with the weight they carried. He mock saluted you without looking at you, bidding you good night.

You stayed where you were for a good hour afterwards, feeling the stinging taste of alcohol in your mouth dissipate into bitterness. The fireflies quieted down, going wherever fireflies went when they went somewhere. The barn animals grew quiet, and the air around you felt stiff with your own emotion, like you couldn’t stand in the weight of it. You closed the barn doors, falling asleep outside to the tune of cricket lullabies.

(WARNING! From here on out, it is not happy! The ending is happy, but please be cautioned this is where the story begins to stray from the original text post/prompt.)

The next day work ensued as usual. The bonding (you liked to call it that) between the two of you stayed a silent, assured thing. Words are never spoken between people, feelings that are simply so obvious that nothing needs to be said. Two people so connected that all the important things could be shared in a look. Not often, if at all, did you get such a connection. When you did you cherished it, and each time it felt like a new breath, a new way to finally feel safe and at home.

The peaceful, practically idyllic mood continued for another week. A week from that night Eugene came to the barn in the middle of the night, well after the both of you had eaten. The creaking of opening doors woke you up, and through squinting in bright lantern light, you saw him. You sat up, fully seeing his face, and noticing he looked thoroughly terrible.

“Somethin’ wrong?” You asked gruffly, voice rough from sleep. You stood, opening the pen door.

“Consumption,” he replied weakly. It left you with a lot of questions. Was he just upset about the whole situation? It wasn’t great. Or did he have it? Did a family member have it? Was he upset about his long dead sister?

“Hey, no need to cry,” you rushed to him, noticing his eyes reddening. You placed your hands on his shoulders, shaking him a bit to get him to look at you. He did, tears on the verge of spilling over.

“Ma’s got it,” he said in a sob, words chilling the air. The horses stopped fidgeting, the chickens falling silent.

“Oh,” you half whispered, wrapping your arms around him. The lantern in his hand fell to the ground, going out and encasing you in the natural darkness of night.

“I can’t lose her Charlie,” he sobbed into your shoulder, soaking through your thin shirt. You brushed his hair with your fingers, pressing your cheek to the side of his head in a hopes to comfort him.

“You won’t,” you assured.

In reality, you had no idea. In all the tales you’d heard about consumption, people didn’t last a year before dying. There never was a case you’d heard where the affected person had lived, but you were optimistic. After all the disease was becoming less and less common, having already killed practically half the population. Maybe that doctor you were friends with could help, but he was further away than you could reach.

“You can’t promise she won’t die,” he sniffed, hands clutching tightly onto the back of your shirt. The fabric bundled in his fist, pulling at the neckline.

“No, I can’t. I can’t promise she won’t die. But I can promise you won’t lose her,” you pulled him off your shoulder, wiping his tears with your thumb. He looked confused, trying to get his crying under control.

“You never lose those who die. You remember them - you’ll always remember them. That’ll never change, and the pain never goes away, but they’re not lost. They’re in you. No matter what happens, she’ll always be with you.”

He gritted his teeth, no longer crying. With a grip tighter than anything before he pulled you into him, hugging you with the ferocity of a long lost love. You hugged back, with gentleness he so desperately craved and needed.

He was silent the rest of his time with you that night. An hour later he got up without a word, staring at you for a moment. Eyes locked, unable to tear away from the blaze of emotions behind his eyes. At long last he closed his eyes, and with a deep breath, he left you alone. Rather, he left, leaving himself all alone.

The next morning a fancy, black car pulled into the driveway, parking near the shed. Through the cracks in the barn wall you saw a sharp dressed man in a suit step out, along with a brown briefcase and a bowler hat. He had stiff posture, upright with mechanic arm movements. You watched him knock on the door to the house, smiling at whoever had opened the door, and walking in. You stayed in the barn, contemplating who the man was.

Before you could get to the bottom of it, Eugene was at the door, telling you that the doctor was there and you deserved to be there for the diagnosis. Their house was nice as always, but it seemed too still, and too empty, despite it having one more person than you were accustomed to. Led by the hand you were taken into Eugene’s parents room, seeing his mother in bed looking both worried and annoyed.

“It’s too early to know for sure, but I wouldn’t take chances. The symptoms are all right, we’d need to do testing to confirm. I advise, don’t wait for the tests to come. Get her to Trudeau’s sanatorium if you can,” the doctor faced the mother now, “and don’t fight back against treatment.”

“I won’t doctor,” she said, a sweet southern belle accent still clear, even in her weak voice. You stayed behind Eugene, watching Pa write down the phone number and address for the best sanatorium the family could afford. He left quickly after that, heading to call the place. The doctor turned to Eugene, nodding once, before leaving.

“Who’s that?” You asked him quietly once the doctor had left.

“Doctor Bryant,” he whispered to you.

“I know a doctor Bryant. Maybe they’re related.”

“Maybe.”

He was distracted. You didn’t blame him, easily following his gaze to his now sleeping mother.

“C’mon, you don’t wanna be near tuberculosis too long. You know how it is,” you pulled at his sleeve, hoping he’d follow you.

“I can’t just leave her,” he protested softly, not looking at you.

“It’s not for that long, and it’s for your health. Please Eugene,” you asked of him. He turned to you, eyes worried in a way that was very unlike him. In one shared glance you both softened. He let you lead him out of the room, the both of you sitting on the ground in the hallway. You sat close together, not bothering to keep up appearances that you weren’t as close as you were. His head leaned on your shoulder, and though he was silent, you could hear a storm inside him. It was going to come out, and badly, one of these days.

His father came back up the stairs, noticing the two of you outside the bedroom door. Eugene didn’t see him, but Pa looked at you, eyes wide and trusting. In the beat of silence between you two, he understood that you'd protect his son no matter what. On his end, he understood that you loved Eugene. You knew, in that shared glance, that he was okay with that. He reentered the room, regardless of consequences. Eugene continued fidgeting with his fingers, not looking up at anything. You stayed there for him the rest of the day.

When the sun set he almost fell asleep. He caught himself before he did, standing up and walking to his room without once looking at you. You took a deep breath, going back outside to sleep in the barn that seemed a whole lot more empty without him in it.

Sunrise the next day came as a surprise. The whole family had half expected the world to stop stock still, or that maybe the sun would stop rising with the diagnosis.

Instead the world kept on turning, and the sun kept on rising, regardless of your own personal turmoils. You could’ve cursed the world for not stopping, for brushing aside what was obviously a worst case scenario. Instead you sat on the couch in the living room with Eugene, waiting in silence for a car to arrive and take his mother away somewhere to get better.

“This place is going to die,” he murmured in the silence, voice cracking with the stress his words brought. He answered your question without you having to say it.

“We’re all going to die, must be sittin’ on a consumption breeding ground, Charlie, I’m _scared_,” he leaned towards you, eyes wide with clear and poignant fear that shattered you to your heart.

“Come with me, then. Wander the roads with me, we’d be safe,” you said, grabbing his hands.

“What?” He tore his hands from your grasp easily. “I’m not leaving, I can’t. My pa, my ma, they both need me.”

“It’s just a suggestion,” you shrugged quietly, hoping you hadn’t hurt him too much.

“Help me with the horses,” he mumbled, standing up and leaving without you. You poked your head around the wall, shooting up and jogging out the door to catch up with him. You did just so, walking beside him towards the barn.

“You could leave,” he suggested with a grunt, situating the saddle atop the horses’ back. None of them had names, much like you didn’t. Well they had names given to them by Pa, but those weren’t their _real_ names - you were waiting for them to tell you their names. They'd tell you one of these days.

“I’m not leaving without you, and I’d never do something you don’t want to,” you said, mounting your own horse. With a grunt and a swing of the legs he was atop his horse, looking at you with equal eye level.

“I’m holding you to that, cher,” he said, staring you in the eye.

“I fully expect you to… _poppy_.”

You rode the horses, exercising them before hooking them up to carts and hauling hay across the field into the barn and into storage. During midday a strange looking car pulled up. You pointed it out to Eugene, who quickly unhooked both of your machinery’s from your respective horses. With a kick to the rear of his horse he was bolting across the field, trailed after by you. Within a few seconds you were at the other side, tying the horses up to the fence outside the barn. In unison you ran to the house, just barely making it to the porch before his mother came out, helped by his father. In baited breath he watched, chest puffed out with held air.

Standing so close to him, no one would see if you held his hand, so you did. It was a silent, unseen comfort. He squeezed your hand, watching with an intense stare as his mother was gently loaded into the car. His father bid her goodbye, so he squeezed your hand once more before letting it go, approaching his mother. You followed behind, letting him have his privacy as he said good bye. You had no idea what he said. After he was done, his mother called you up, something you weren’t expecting.

“Ma’am?” You asked, pulling your straw hat off your head.

“Keep them safe, alright? Do that for me,” she requested of you.

“Cross my heart,” you promised, making a cross on your chest where your heart was. She smiled at you, a knowing and soft smile. You smiled back, stepping backwards as the door was shut. By the time your hat was back on your head, the car was driving back up the hill and onto the main road.

Months passed, and well into fall, the lack of news was beginning to itch at all your minds. It made you nervous, Eugene jumpy, and Pa irritable. The combination often led to disaster, Pa yelling at Eugene unprompted, making him fall into sobs. On those days, the nights were dead silent. Eugene would find you in the barn at midnight, falling into your arms in a way that no one ever did.

It was something you grew very accustomed to, and as it got colder, you got the feeling that the visits weren’t so much about his father sometimes yelling at him. He’d visit you even on good days, falling asleep on top of you till dawn broke, where he’d sneak back into the house.

On an easy day, where there wasn’t much to do except feed the animals, the two of you ventured down to the river in the middle of town. The two of you sat down together, an arms width apart, sharing in a book. He read to you and you listened, eyes closed as you imagined what the book told you. You lay down on the sandy shore, a jacket balled up underneath your head.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me,” he warned you teasingly. He smiled, which was rare, so you appreciated it greatly.

“Just read, poppy, I promise I won’t fall asleep.”

He read through half the book before he grew tiresome of the story, closing the book with a light snap. You sat up slowly, facing him with a contented smile.

“Let’s head home?” You suggested.

“Yeah.”

That evening was cooler than a lot of the evenings, which was saying something, because the evenings were definitely beginning to get a colder average. Eugene didn’t knock, and he didn’t enter with a light. He just came in, entered your chosen stall before you could say a word, and sat down next to you. From your lying position you sat up, squinting at him in the darkness.

“You alright?” You asked him, accent thicker in your half asleep state.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, turning to look at you. He looked the furthest from fine than he ever had before.

“’S alright,” you mumbled, leaning forward to put your arms around him. In your sleepiness your head fell onto his shoulder, almost falling straight asleep again. His own arms went around you, holding you tight against him, a numb but all too strong feeling penetrating your heart. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t seem on the verge of it, but the sadness that radiated in pools off of him was worse than anything that would make you cry. It mushed your synapsis, slowing your movements and pricking at your fingers. His grip on your shirt tightened to the point where it was painful on your neck.

“Hey, look at me,” you said, pulling barely away from him, just enough to put your hand on his cheek and get him to look at you. Once bright eyes turned dully to you, long eyelashes clouding what once was clear.

“Hold my hand. I’ve got you,” you murmured. His hand fell from it’s place on your back, landing in your lap. You intertwined your fingers, lacing together elaborate pieces of an emotional puzzle you couldn’t begin to comprehend. With just touch alone he graced you, leaving behind imprints of burning fingers that no one but you could see. In such an impious world you wondered how nature could create such a thing of glory, something more beautiful than even nature herself. It seemed as though the world around you turned to cheap imitations of his beauty.

“Please don’t leave me, I can’t bear to lose you too,” he whispered, voice cracking as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’ll never lose me. And I’m not talking about memories this time,” you said. He looked up at you. “I will never leave your side, for as long as you want me with you.”

“I thought you wanted to wander.”

“It’s in my nature, yes, but wandering means nothing when I’ve already found what’s -“

You paused, a quiet gulp. What’s perfect? What makes you happy?

“What I’ve been looking for, all my life.”

_A brother. More than that. Much, much more._

_More than you’d ever be willing to say._

A month after that autumn night Pa received news through the phone that Ma had died.

Your only comfort was that it happened while she was sleeping, and it was relatively peaceful. Pa did not share the same sentiment; he beat himself up over the fact that he wasn’t with her. That he sent her someplace strange, where she knew no comfort, to die. It wasn’t your place to console him, and you didn’t think he’d receive comfort from you very well anyway. So instead Eugene stayed with him, keeping him company through the day. During that time you stayed in the barn, making sure everyone was well fed and clean.

That night you were taken into the house, where three shot glasses had been put out on the table.

“We’re havin’ a drinkin’ contest,” Pa said in a gruff voice, dry from the crying he’d obviously been doing.

“What for?” You asked.

“Drinkin’ our sorrows away,” Eugene said, setting the bottle of whiskey on the table with a satisfying clack of glass against wood.

“Let’s get started.”

You sat down in one of the chairs, ornately carved with a blue silk pillow on the seat. The three of you drank till you couldn’t anymore, Pa holding the most alcohol out of all of you. It only took around two shots till you started to feel it, and one more before you definitely couldn’t handle anymore. For Eugene he lasted much longer, around six shots before he adamantly refused more. Pa handled an astounding ten shots, but you had to take his word for it, as you’d passed out at the table along with Eugene before you saw him take his tenth shot.

In the morning, despite terrible hangovers, you collected the fruit falling from nearby trees. Eugene joined you with straw baskets, carrying the fruit by his side.

“Isn’t it just awful that I’m mostly scared?” He chuckled to himself, heartless and lacking any real humor at all.

“I think it’s normal to be scared. Hell, I’m scared right now. Disease isn’t something I know very much about,” you said, picking a ripe apple from the tree. It was riper than any other you’d found, a precious red dotted with yellow.

“Y’mean you haven’t ran into an occult being that filled your head with knowledge of all diseases?”

“_No_,” you laughed. “But as I said, I’m scared too.”

“Why don’t you just leave then?” He said, tone changing suddenly, biting into and under your skin in a way you were sure he didn’t mean them to.

“I made a promise,” you said quietly, putting the ripe apple in the basket after having fully examined it.

“Why won’t you just /_eave_?!” He yelled, eyes a flurry of sudden tears and anger. His fists clenched at his sides, looking quite ready to sock you in the face.

“I - I’m sorry, do you want me to leave?”

“God fuck, yes - no, I… I can’t stand this!” He pounded his fists against the tree twice, a loud sob wracking through his body. He curled up, falling to his knees, palms of his hands scraping blood down the bark of the tree.

“Gene,” you mumbled quickly, falling to his side, trying to get him to stop pounding at the tree. He was beginning to bleed more profusely.

“No, no, no I can’t touch you - I’m just going to hurt you, it’s too much,” he gasped, trying to speak through sobs pounding their way through his body. In a wrench of muscles he pulled his hands from the tree, wrapping them around his head, keeling at the waist to press his face into his kneeled legs. In the fierceness of his outburst you could practically feel the blood rushing through his head, pounding out beats of harsh pain through the pressure of his tears.

“You’re jus’ gonna hurt yourself, please,” you unlatched his hands from his skull, setting your hand on his head, pressing him to your chest. He yelled, an anguished scream that tore through him and went straight through your own chest, burning your heart into shards. It was the sort of cry that started deep in the lungs, crawling its’ way through the throat till it jumped out of the mouth, landing on the ground in a pile of blood and gushing tears.

“She didn’t deserve this, _I_ don’t deserve this,” he sobbed, voice cracking with the tears still pouring like even rain on your shirt. You stayed silent, letting him cry in broad daylight into your chest. By the time he was finished with his outburst it was well into the afternoon, and he had thoroughly tired himself out.

So, in the bright of day, with autumn still smelling as sweet as ever, he fell asleep under the apple tree. Tucked into you he closed his eyes and drifted off, leaves falling around you in graceful dances, the wind as their partners.

You tried to focus on the leaves, on the scents, the views, _anything_, instead of his mother. The loss wasn’t yours to feel but you were in the middle of it all, and it struck a nerve within you. Maybe it was because you’d lost your own mother, and couldn’t stand to lose anymore. Still you kept your mind off it, watching birds flit by as though the world was just continuing on as normal, as though the only change was the weather.

Eugene stayed sleeping on your chest beneath the tree, sunlight shining through green and gold leaves and falling in blurred patterns on you and Eugene. You closed your eyes, trying to slip into the same unconsciousness he had, but you couldn’t bring yourself to relax. An awful feeling stabbed at your gut, making you lose the sensation in your legs.

The worst was yet to come, you just knew it. You said nothing to Eugene, letting him sleep through your suspicions.

He woke up later that afternoon, dehydrated from the amount of crying he’d done. Leaving the baskets behind for you to take care of later you led him home, sitting him down on the couch. You fetched him a glass of water, sitting beside him to make sure he drank all of it.

“Y’don’t have t’ take care of me. It's,” he mumbled, taking another sip from his water, "it's rotten work."

“Not t' me. Not if it's you,” you said, patting his shoulder.

After that he spent less time with you. At first you wondered why, but you surmised it was most likely because he didn’t want you to see him crying again. That, or you reminded him of something too painful to think of. In spite of his new behavior he spent nights with you every now and then. Sleeping beside you seemed to be therapeutic for him, even if he spoke very rarely to you. Through the remainder of fall this continued, and when winter came rearing around the corner, Pa practically ordered you to sleep inside.

As it grew colder and colder you found it harder to say no, so you accepted, sleeping on the couch in the living room. Bedrooms always felt too closed off for you, too private. But the living room, while open, just felt lonely - empty in a space that was going to remain empty. In flashes of dreams and vivid imagination you saw the house as it might’ve once been; filled with people, three young girls and a young boy, with a loving mother and father. The sisters would fight and the brother would tease them, but ultimately they trusted each other with their lives. The father would be stern and strict but loving when required, opening his arms up whenever needed. The mother was wise, kind beyond anything expected of any normal being.

You’d open your eyes to a dark, empty house.

In several nights time the loneliness became unbearable. As Eugene had sought you in his times of dire need, sleeping beside you in the homey barn, you found him. You knocked on his bedroom door as quiet as you could, so as to not wake his father. Behind the door you heard quiet footsteps, and then it opened, revealing him with the messiest hair you’d ever seen.

“Cher, everything alright?” He asked groggily, rubbing his dry eyes.

“Your house is lonely,” you said. He opened the door, letting you step inside his room.

“I know,” he replied softly, getting back into his bed. He pressed himself up against the wall, allowing space for you to get in beside him. You froze, heart leaping in place at the notion.

“I - I don’t want to get your nice bed all dirty,” you stammered.

“Not a problem,” he said through a yawn, opening up the covers for you to slide underneath. With a glance to the door and a settling breath you got in beside him, sleeping on your back to avoid facing towards or away from him. He turned over, wishing you a good nights sleep, falling right back asleep. Feeling slightly less alone, you closed your eyes, finally allowing yourself a peaceful sleep.

That morning Dr. Bryant came by again. Both you and Eugene decided not to listen in, instead sitting in the barn waiting for his father to break any more news to you. In that time you sat in silence, contemplating your own thoughts. Every now and then he got up and paced. You watched him, eyes never leaving him till he sat down.

After an hour of this his father entered the barn, informing you that he was going to leave for a few days to pick up Ma’s body, to bring back home and bury in the springtime. Currently, the ground was frozen solid, so the actual burial would have to wait till spring. Before then she’d be kept in a frozen state so as to slow decomposition. These weren’t details you needed to know, but Pa told you them anyway. The three of you walked back to the house, you and Eugene sitting on the stairwell, as close as possible as you waited for him to finish packing.

Shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip you sat beside him, holding his hand in yours and fidgeting with it. You both held intense stares at your hands intertwined, but it didn’t make you nervous. At this point it was a source of comfort that never wavered.

Pa came down the stairs with a large suitcase, bidding the both of you good bye with a hug. He retold you everything about the barn, reminding you that the animals needed to be fed every day, and to make sure the stalls were clean. He kept going on until Eugene stopped him, reminding him that he’d been there practically all his life, and that you knew the routine pretty well. Pa nodded hesitantly, clapping him on the shoulder, and turning to leave out the front door.

The first day without him was, to say the least, awkward. There was unbroken tension in the air that neither of you wanted to address, so you continued on as normal, but it felt awful wrong. Everything was far too stiff, as though you’d both been holding back fiercely, and now that Pa was gone, you didn’t need to anymore. Why you still did confused you, and why you still _consciously_ did confused you further.

On the second day you sat across from Eugene at the dinner table, eating a simple meal and eating in silence. You hadn’t much to say anyways, everything either too casual or too heartbreaking to mention. After a bit you thought of a conversation topic, and while you were unsure, you needed to hear him speak. Even if it was just to make sure he still could.

“Maybe you should move somewhere else,” you suggested quietly.

“With you?”

“Yeah, and your Pa.”

“This house has been in our family for generations. My great great granddad built it.”

“I know, but if it’s a grounds for disease -“

“You just want me to leave, don’t you?” He glared fully at you, gripping his fork tightly.

“It’s not that,” you said quickly.

“Then what is it?!”

“I’m scared! I’m worried about you, I don’t wanna lose you!”

“You didn’t even know my ma! You don’t know me, you’ve hardly even known I exist for more than a year! Why are you scared?! You didn’t have to go through losing a sister _and_ a mother!” He banged the table with his fists, standing up in order to glare down at you.

“I cared about her, more than you know! She was like a mother to me and I cried the day she died, just like you did!” You needed to stop yelling. This was his pain to feel, his loss to deal with, and it was your job to help - not to yell at him and add more detriment to a soul already half dead.

“Why are you so fucking worried anyway?! Why should you care if I live or die, because I sure don’t!”

“Because I love you!”

The shouting ceased, Eugene’s eyes wide and scared. His hands shook just slightly against the table, his breathing growing uneven and ragged. There was certainly no turning back for you. The harsh heart beat in your chest spawned from both anger and anxiety, and though you felt you should’ve been more nervous at confessing something you weren’t even aware of until that moment, you couldn’t feel anything but pure terror for his safety, and crushing grief for his mother.

“You _what_?” He asked in a shaking whisper, squinting his eyes as though it’d help him to hear better.

“I… love you.”

“You can’t.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Of course I would.”

You looked at each other, suddenly falling into a relaxed laugh, shoulders shaking from it. He fell back into his chair, smiling calmly at you.

“I love you,” he repeated to you, leaning in, voice soft and practically singing. It was calm, and gentle, and exactly what the both of you needed.

“I love you too, but I’d like to finish eating.”

He chuckled, allowing the both of you to finish your meal. You thought of his father in the quiet that ensued, how he might take this if he found out about it. He was a kind man, but you weren’t sure how far that kindness extended, and it may not apply to the blasphemous. It wasn’t the time to worry about that, you decided, looking at Eugene in the light from the small chandelier above the table. A blush was apparent on his cheeks, red all the way into the tip of his nose. His eyes were half shrouded by long eyelashes, freckles now completely washed away by lack of sunlight. There were small dips at the ends of his lips, soft things that you loved to notice. It sort of reminded you of dimples, another thing you loved, because it only came about when someone smiled.

When you both finished you took the plates into the kitchen, washing them in the sink. Eugene came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and nesting his face in the crook of your neck. You let him, dutifully finishing the dishes before turning around. Still in his arms you smiled, and he smiled back at you, a soft and sad smile. Your hands, now dry, went to his cheeks, your hold clement and compassionate. He sunk into you, relaxing in your touch till there was practically no part of him that wasn’t touching you.

He tilted his head forward, lips brushing just barely against yours. Before he could move away you moved closer, fully pressing him against you in the loving kiss only shared between people who know, no matter what, that their love is right. It wasn’t an emotion you expected when you went to kiss him; feeling right, and like you belonged. You expected actually to feel the exact opposite, as though you were committing a grave mistake. Instead all you felt was happiness, new breath finally filling lungs that felt as though they hadn’t breathed at all in the past few months that she’d been dead.

“Don’t mention this to anyone,” he whispered as he pulled away.

“I’m not that stupid,” you grumbled.

“Just making sure.”

You were left alone for a long while. A week that seemed to drag on, neither of you willing to go into town or call the sanatorium in fear of bad news. There was no way to contact Pa, so you found solace in each other, holding each other in the exact way you did before.

On the first of December you asked if he wanted to celebrate Christmas. He declined, saying there wasn’t much point if it was just the two of you. You disagreed, saying you’d get him a gift.

Exactly _what_ you were going to get him, you didn’t know. He didn’t want things - everything he wanted he had, or was dead, and you can’t bring back the dead. You thought maybe a new hat, but he had nice hats. You wondered if maybe he’d like a cat, or a new shirt, or a tree, but none of it seemed good. Eventually you stopped trying to think of items as in worth, because after giving it a good, hard thought, you remembered Eugene didn’t care too much for material things. It was all well thought out, emotional things, so you ought to give him something from the heart.

For you that was easy. Go out into nature, make something out of wood or rocks. It still nagged you that maybe it wouldn’t be good enough, but you couldn’t for the life of you think of anything else. So one morning, before Eugene had stirred you left your bed, pulling on a winter jacket to go out into the forest beside the house.

The morning was quiet, and a fresh layer of snow had come last night. The soft breeze bit painfully at your nose and cheeks, shining them what you were sure was bright red. Stopping by a tree you dug through the snow, trying to find something you could make something with. After scanning through a large patch of snow and thoroughly wrecking your back you found a black, oval stone, shined, with a swirling white streak through it. You thought it quite beautiful, and you could carve something simple into it, so you kept it. The journey back home was as short as the one there.

When you got home Eugene was waiting for you, confused, but more scared as to why you left. You laughed, closing the door and kissing his forehead.

“Just ‘case we’re not doing Christmas don’t mean we can’t do Christmas,” you told him very professionally, shirking your coat and boots before heading up to your room. He followed you, trying to look over your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” He asked, almost getting closed out of his room before he caught the door.

“It’s a surprise,” you said, closing the door the rest of the way.

In the quiet you were left alone with you looked at the various tools in his room. Overall his room was actually very tidy - it was kept clean, though in recent months it was falling into a state of disarray. However in the closet, on the floor, he kept a box of tools that he thought were especially good. You found this out after stumbling across the box while examining his closet.

You sat at his desk, sketching out the form of a sunflower before carving it deep into the stone. Halfway through Eugene knocked quietly on the door. In a moment the rock was in your pocket, tools back in their box and dust off his desk. He entered, quiet and timid.

“Tell me a story?” He asked, landing on his knees in front of you. He rested his chin on the chair, looking up at you. You nodded, hand falling into his hair.

“When I was younger, I was staying in this town. I was probably in my teen years, or somethin’. Anyways I simply wandered around, and I happened to make a very good friend. Her name was Amelie. We’d do all sorts of things together - y’know, how kids do. Botherin’ people, making a scene, fiddling around in the forest. I don’t recall how it came up but one day she told me I’d been there in that town a whole year. ‘A whole year,’ I said, ‘now that’s astoundin’.’ I’d never been anywhere for more than three months at a time! So a whole year, that was - that was something. After she’d mentioned this to me I started itching everywhere. I wondered why, over and over again, till I came to the conclusion that I needed to leave. The town was what was ticklin’ me. Too much of the same. So I left,” you sighed, shifting your weight. “And I never did say good bye to Amelie. That girl was a good one. Wouldn’t even know how to find her now if I tried. I’ve regretted leaving though, I don’t think I should’ve.”

“That’s a sad story,” he mumbled, head leaning against your thigh.

“It’s a story with a lesson,” you reminded him, your hand stroking through his long hair.

“What’s that then? The lesson?”

“Don’t waste good.”

Christmas came as any other morning did. Eugene had fallen asleep on top of your arm, so reaching with your leg you grabbed your pants off the floor. With exact ease you took the finished stone out of your pants pocket, gently shaking him awake.

“Good morning, poppy. Merry Christmas,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Off instinct, as he first awoke he left a peck on your chest, before moving up and leaving a proper kiss on your cheek. His eyes peeled open, and he saw the rock in your hand. He looked between you and the rock confusedly, not seeing the carving on the other side.

“Here.” You handed it to him. He took it from you, turning it over to see the carefully carved sunflower in black rock.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. Sitting up, he stared at it in wonder, turning it over and over in his hands.

“Good then?” You asked with a chuckle, leaning on his side.

“Yes, it’s amazing, but you shouldn’t have.”

“That’s a dirty lie and we both know it,” you bopped his nose with your finger, standing up and out of bed. You stretched, getting clean clothes that Eugene had so generously shared with you. From the bed he watched you put them on, seeming as though he was watching the most entertaining thing in the world. His attention didn’t stray from you, rock still held safe in his palm.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he offered, getting up and getting dressed much faster than you had.

“I thought I was making breakfast?” You rushed to catch up with him, only seeing him again when you arrived in the kitchen.

“Nah, you can make dinner,” he said with a smile, knowing you were definitely not a cook.

You smiled sweetly at him, taking a seat at the dining room table. You chose a chair where you could still watch him cooking. Watching him, you felt something off. A horrible deja vu overtook your thoughts, and the same feeling from before, long before flooded your system, drowning out all other thoughts.

The worst was yet to come. The feeling had gone away for a while but paranoia came in full swing, threatening to freeze you still to your chair.

Then Eugene turned around, two plates in hand, and it dissipated.

You let it slide for the rest of the day. It was a rare morning where he woke up adequately happy, without a nightmare, without being huddled in his own depression. So for that day, you didn’t mention it, swearing to yourself that you’d tell him tomorrow. During that meantime though, you made sure he was happy. You started a fire, and curled up with him on the couch, falling asleep to flickering flames.

You kept your word. In the morning you let a few hours of waking up slide by, before you sat him down in the living room, saying you needed to talk with him.

“I think we need to do something,” you started with. After moments of silence he gestured for more information. “Pa, we haven’t heard from him in months. A trip to a sanatorium doesn’t take that long, it certainly didn’t take that long for Ma. What should we do? Call the police?”

You watched him swallow a lump in his throat, his whole body tightening in on itself. He stared at the ground, fidgeting in small movements with his fingers.

“Eugene we can’t avoid this forever. Somethings’ happened to him. Doesn’t mean he’s dead but… something’s not right.”

“I - I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head with finality. “You’ve got t’ make the decision for me.”

“Uh, I think it’d be best if we both decided. So neither of us are alone in the choice?”

He became quiet, head falling against your shoulder.

“Call the police,” he mumbled, words you barely heard. You nodded, holding him close to you for a few minutes before you left, calling the sheriff. You spoke with him on the phone for twenty minutes. During that time he assured you he’d do everything in his power to bring Mr. Silas back home, even telling higher ups that a man had gone missing. You thanked him, and relayed the confidence of the sheriff’s words to Eugene. He nodded, not meeting your gaze, instead grabbing your shirt and weakly tugging you down. You caught his drift easily, laying down in a fashion where he could lay beside you.

As the fire dimmed the house grew cold. The glass felt ready to break at any minute, and you held him closer, basking in the heat off his skin. He had the same idea, arms wrapping tight around you, keeping you as close as possible.

Midday he restarted the fire, sitting on the floor in front of your half asleep form. From what you could see he was still tense, thoughts and problems practically spilling out of his skin. You rested your hand on his shoulder, and he leaned back into the touch.

“It’s fine t’ ask for help y’know,” you told him softly.

“I _know_ that,” he hissed, no real venom to back up his tone.

“I know of a woman who just wouldn’t learn that lesson. Not till my friend came ‘round, in the least,” you sighed, recalling a family, and a family story you’d thought about a while ago.

“Another story?” He asked with a weak chuckle. At your nod, he requested you tell it, and to keep it good.

“I’ll try,” you laughed, letting your mind wander to the day you were first told this story.

“Ara, the brother of the father of this family I was stayin’ with, had moved to this new town. Apparently it was quite the place, all beautiful, next to a lake. But after having thoroughly explored the town he found a small side road. It led way into the country, and it became a trail not long after. Just a small ways away from the town there was a house, nicely kept, lookin’ like it should’ve been in the center of town. He was a curious person, as you might’ve guessed, so he knocked on the door. This woman, from Africa, answered it. From the kindness of ‘er heart she let him in, trying to serve him everythin’ from raw fish to fried watermelon.

“She asked for his name but Ara was a superstitious man. Thought the woman was a fae, an’ they don’t do too kindly with yer names. So what he said was, ‘I don’t have a name.’ If you run into a fae,” you interrupted your story to keep him informed and safe, “and they ask for yer name, say ‘I won’t give you my name, but you can call me Ainsel. Means myself, should keep you safe.”

“Not the highest of my current worries, cher. Tell your story.”

You laughed, obeying his request.

“So he left after a bit, thinkin’ maybe he’d go back, maybe he wouldn’t. He did though, later that week, after having wondered why he never saw her ‘round town. He knocked on the door, she opened it slowly. A very, very long story short, he found out that she was Nigerian royalty. She’d run away from her home, but she never did tell ‘im _why_ exactly, so he never asked. He got around to askin’ her why she was never about town, and she said that she didn’t want to be caught and sent back to Africa. Ara offered her help but she refused, till she got injured bad while hunting. He came to her rescue, got her groceries from the store.

“She was understandably embarrassed ‘bout the whole situation, but he put her mind t’ rest. No harm done. That day, I think she learned that asking for help ain’t any weakness at all. Really, it’s a strength.”

Eugene nodded, closing his eyes with a calming sigh.

“I thought _you_ were gonna be the one teaching something in this one,” he said upon your completion, making you chuckle, rolling from your side onto your back.

“Not everything’s about me.”

Days passed with repetition that both you and Eugene fell victim to. Every morning you’d wake up at the same time, do your chores, then spend the rest of the day trying to distract yourselves from the news, or lack thereof. Besides making sure the animals in the barn were okay neither of you left the house, feeling entirely closed off from the rest of the world. None of his parents’ friends came by, no calls came in, and you didn’t bother to go check the mail anymore. Most of the time it was just notes of consolidation, or letters from various organizations asking for charity money.

Every now and then you’d run out of wood to use in the fire, so the two of you would haul yourselves outside to chop firewood. He’d do it for twenty or so minutes, then you’d switch, you hammering down with a sharp ax as he watched. These moments were usually silent, as the two of you were both freezing and didn’t have much energy to use other than to keep chopping wood. But, after every one of these times, the two of you would carry the wood back inside, sit together next to a large fire and drink hot chocolate. It was another routine you were glad to have.

Routine broke with the first phone call in a month. Winter was calming down, the snows turning to slush and rains. Eugene picked it up off the wall before you could answer, but you stayed there, waiting to hear if there was any news.

“You - really? You’re not yanking my chain, are ya? … Alright. Thank you, sheriff.” He hung the phone back on the wall, turning to you. You waited patiently.

“They’re involving state police. They can’t seem to find him,” he said, turning his back to you and beginning to pace in the living room.

“Don’t kidnappings go cold after a few days?”

“I have no idea, but this ain’t no kidnappin’, I know that, in my gut. He must be somewhere.”

“Better than nowhere,” you shrugged lightly. He stopped his pacing, looking at you. He gave a curt but gentle nod, sitting down on one of the cushioned seats. You kneeled before him, holding his hands in his lap.

“Don’t think on it,” you whispered, raising yourself just enough to kiss him. The kisses on lips shared between you were always soft but firm, unless other emotions had kicked in beforehand.

“Hard not to,” he mumbled, trying not to meet your gaze. You leaned up, pressing a kiss to his temple before kneeling back down.

“Look at me,” you asked of him. He finally raised his head, eyes piercing and hopeless. “It’s just me. Just me. You’ll be alright.”

“I know. You’ve said it enough, I’m starting to believe it,” he laughed weakly.

“Good. You should believe it.” You kissed him on the forehead, taking a few steps back to sit on the couch.

After that day, they never contacted you again. You thought the case had gone cold, while Eugene was more suspicious, thinking they just didn’t do their job well enough. You were inclined to agree with him after a while. After all, they hadn’t called to say the case had gone cold, they were simply silent - the type of silent that shows the guilt behind a mask of polite words and mannerisms.

Winter passed, and the new year rang in, father still missing or dead. Time moved on, but you didn’t, and neither did Eugene, despite desperately wanting to.

“I can’t stand this house anymore,” he told you one quiet morning, where you hadn’t been woken by roosters. It had worried you when you woke up to the sun, but when you checked they were fine.

“Whaddya mean?” You asked, trailing the veins under his skin.

“Too quiet,” he mumbled, his voice cracking as he said ‘quiet.’

“Wanna go somewhere?” You asked cautiously. In the past the subject was volatile, making both of you nothing but miserable in the end. Now he brought it up, of his own accord, so maybe he was open to it. 

“No.”

“… do you need to go somewhere?”

He didn’t respond, turning mute at the invasive question.

“Give it time,” you murmured, kissing his forehead.

In the last days of that month Dr. Bryant came around. When he knocked you answered, inviting him inside. He offered nothing but condolences, and for this he apologized. You maintained that he had nothing to apologize for. When you lost the string of conversation, Eugene came into the living room, asking if you wanted anything to eat or drink.

“Sit down, I’ll get it,” you said, standing from the couch and heading to the kitchen. He didn’t protest, taking your seat and striking conversation with the doctor. From your spot you could barely hear the conversation, but if you stood still, you understood it.

“When are you planning to move?” Bryant asked. Your eyes widened. Did Eugene say he wanted to move?

“What?” Eugene sounded astounded, so you assumed he did not mention wanting to move.

“You can’t keep up the tax on a place like this, son. Not even if the both of you got real jobs, and it takes a whole lot more people than you got or can afford to actually make a profit off this place.”

Eugene sighed, and you heard him shift in his seat.

“What do you recommend we do then, doc?”

“Move into the town, sell this place. It’ll go for a lot, more than enough to buy your own place. The both of you should get jobs.”

A moment of silence, then, “alright.”

You came back into the room, carrying a tray of three coffees and two plates of gold nugget cake that you’d made earlier that week. You handed the plates to either of them, not caring for any yourself. The doctor asked if you needed any extra help, considering you were both still very young. Eugene quickly declined it, and when Bryant asked if there was any news, you informed him on the situation.

“Unfortunate,” he said. “I was good friends with your father, Eugene.”

“I know,” Eugene said quietly, sipping from his cup.

"I do hope that he’ll turn up. In the meantime, call me if you need anything,” he said, standing up and straightening out his jacket. He left, taking his ever present briefcase with him.

“I forgot to ask him if he’s related to my friend, the doctor with the last name Bryant,” you sighed once the door was closed, back collapsing against the cushion of the couch. Eugene chuckled, setting his plate and cup down on the coffee table.

“Maybe next time,” he said.

There wasn’t a next time. Before he could ever visit, and before you thought to call him again, Eugene had packed up your essentials. He’d done it practically overnight, without telling you. When you woke up the next morning to blank walls, the home having abandoned everything that made it personal, you were understandably confused. You stepped down the stairs, seeing Eugene as you turned round the wall.

He was on his knees, staring unmoving at a box packed with pictures still in their frames. He made no acknowledgment that he saw you, jaw slack and eyelids heavy. You didn’t speak. Instead you moved to his side, kneeling beside him, putting your hand over his in his lap. Without looking at you he leaned, head falling against your shoulder.

“I gotta do this, don’t I?” He collected himself in stoic silence, picking himself up off the ground. You stood with him, closing the box and grabbing it off the floor. Without words you both went outside, where a truck you’d never seen before was parked right outside the house.

“That’s new,” you said to him, walking down the steps to set the box in the back end of it.

“Been in the garage. We don’t use it much.”

“Obviously.”

He cracked a slight of a smile, helping you to situate the boxes with each other. Even secluded in your own section of the world, in daylight, you didn’t touch. Not unless necessary - maybe it was a fear factor, neither of you knew, but it was another unspoken rule.

You both sat in the car, him in the drivers seat, you next to him. He hadn't started the engine yet, but his hands were curled tightly around the steering wheel.

"I've finally thought of a name for you," he said with finality. You looked up at him, having previously been staring at your folded hands.

"What is it?" You asked, tilting your head to the side.

"... Silas. Thought since I couldn't... give you my last name... it could, uh, be your first."

_Like marriage._

"I love it," you smiled. He returned the sentiment, his smile shaky and nervous. You could tell he'd thought about it for a while.

Through a long process of papers and the transferring of money you sold the house. Nothing of sentimental value was left. Everything that wouldn’t fit in the new house was put into a storage house, where it would stay and collect dust till someone came around to inherit or use it. The new house, your house, was small. It lay in the suburbs of Cookeville, Tennessee, was painted white and blue, and had a white picket fence surrounding the small, green lawn. You had worries that all of Eugene’s stuff might crowd the place up but it didn’t, not too much. The filled hallways and walls lined with photographs and paintings was a nice change from barren rooms where a family once stood.

The living room was set up similarly to how it looked before, this time with the main focus being the fireplace, not the coffee table. The cushions were still incredibly soft, as though that would change. The china was kept in a dark oak cupboard, showcased in frosted glass in the corner of the living room. The fireplace, set up on a raised hearth, was always well kept.

There was only one bedroom, so you shared it, like you did with most everything. Meals were eaten together, time off was taken together. While you thought maybe, like with all things, you’d get sick of it, you never did. You were also surprised to see that he never got sick of you.

Despite all your worries, you lived there for years, never tiring of the scenery.

“You’re still not leaving, right?” He asked, looking up from his newspaper. The scent of flowers now wafted off him with free will. Roses, peonies, jasmine, all from his work at the flower shop. He dressed nicely, in a soft manner, with button downs, wool sweaters and bow ties. It reminded you of a father, and sometimes you wondered if he wanted kids.

“I told you this before, I’m perfectly contented to be right where I am,” you chuckled, patting his knee. He smiled, soft and just as content as you were.

You never brought up his father, nor his mother. Sometimes you caught him staring at the photos on the wall, or at old china dishes that were passed from his father to him. At those times you usually left him alone, but there were times you’d interrupt. There were times you wanted him to get help. Not just from you, from someone who knew what they were doing, because the loss of losing both parents in such a short amount of time, and not even knowing if one is dead, can be horrifyingly debilitating. Loss was one thing you knew, and a thing you began to understand.

“Y’ever wish you could go back to the country?” He asked you one day. You sat with him in bed, reading. In the past ten years you’d lived in Cookeville you’d learned how to read, chiefly taught by Eugene himself. He was wearing glasses, bought about a year back.

“Sometimes. Mostly just miss the horses, and the hay,” you shrugged.

“Ever miss wanderin’?”

“Nope.”

There’s an old quote from a French writer that goes, “For true love is inexhaustible; the more you give, the more you have. And if you go to draw at the true fountainhead, the more water you draw, the more abundant is its flow.” You read that quote yourself, in a book given to you for Christmas. You read it in bed, and when you looked up at Eugene, you understood what it meant.

After all, you’d found what you thought you could never have for all those years.

**Author's Note:**

> Silas; meaning - derived from the Aramaic sh'īlā meaning "asked for."


End file.
